


Unholy

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Potter!Seungwoo, Unhealthy Relationships, Writer!Seungyoun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: After all, what is love without destruction?
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 103





	Unholy

_these violent delights have violent ends_

Seungyoun is in love with a boy who is fond of the macabre. 

Seungwoo is fascinated with severed heads and serial killers. All they do when they’re together is watch gory videos.

He's never had any brutal urges, Seungwoo explains, such as hurting animals or using a knife. His interest is purely curiosity—the same way a person studies coffee and interior design and what happened in 1641. One may collect coins, but he has an extensive library of horror movies and cult-favorite murder documentaries instead. His dream lunch date is Luis Buñuel.

Seungwoo is very charming. He can speak of the darkest things and deliver it in a way that makes one think of sunshine and rainbows. He lives for pottery. He likes the word devastating. He has three tattoos: a phrase, his birthdate, and lavender flowers and a crescent moon. Good looks, long lashes, honeyed voice. Everyone likes him. Boys and girls flock to him. He is devil personified, bringing people into temptation and at his mercy. 

Seungyoun is no different. When they were introduced at his pottery exhibit, he couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

From day one, he knew Seungwoo was going to be his ruin. It’s still true. He will do anything for him.

Sometimes, Seungwoo is a god. He is benevolent and merciful. He brings Seungyoun to his knees. However, there are no miracles this time around, and the prayer is only composed of a repeated name from one’s lips.

Seungyoun watches as a clay is centered on the pottery wheel. A smaller amount is formed at the top of the hump which is used to create the pieces, like plates or vases. The clay is pulled until it resembles a thick bowl, and its walls are raised and thinned to the desired shape. He has seen this process countless times before. He already knows it by heart.

This is what Seungwoo does best: turning mud into gold, molding things into whatever he wants them to be. What isn’t to his liking, he destroys casually. 

In the kitchen cupboard is a line of handmade teacups. Seungyoun picks two, a white chawan with blue paint streaks and a silver-speckled black yunomi. He fills them with oolong tea.  Served with biscuits, it can hardly be called a meal. 

They don’t mind. It’s not food they’re hungry for.

Seungwoo pulls him into his lap. He kisses the sides of his neck and the tops of his shoulders. His hands find purchase on every bit of his exposed skin. He doesn’t need to ask. It’s not like they do anything else.

See, there are two ways to fuck.  One is to do it soullessly, as a pastime and a vice, with satisfaction as the only means.

The second is Seungyoun’s favorite: to make it a religion—to worship it, to lose oneself in it. To cross oceans and part seas for it. To wage a war for it, a war that is wild and uncontrollable and ravaging.

After all, what is love without devotion and destruction?

It’s not love if it’s not painful, so he takes everything that Seungwoo gives him. Until there is nowhere left to go, until there is nothing left to break. In the distance, he hears a teacup shattering. Deeper. Harder. _God._

When Seungwoo embraces him, he forgets every other deity he's ever believed in.

When he opens his eyes, Seungwoo is the first thing he sees.

“Did you sleep well?,” Seungwoo asks. Around them are the remnants of a hard-fought battle: scattered clothes, strewn bedsheets. Seungyoun can barely move from the soreness. He thinks it’s the most beautiful thing.

“How can I not? You were brutal,” he teases.

Seungwoo smiles apologetically. “I bought you breakfast. And a shit ton of coffee. I know you don’t enjoy tea.” It’s a meager breakfast of croissant and fruits but it’s more filling than a restaurant meal.

Seungyoun tries to put into words the way he feels—it wells from his feet, goes to his knees and to his thighs that miss Seungwoo’s hips, to his chest and ribs that are too rigid to contain a love that is bursting at the seams, to his ears and his eyes and his lips, and to his head that is tirelessly keeping up with everything that this is.

This is what he does best: using blood as his ink, manipulating words until they bow to his every whim. In his world, love is what he makes it to be.

He doesn’t care for kind. Love only needs to be wanting and wicked, and his is a violent hurricane that wrecks everything on its path. It leaves no survivors. After all, it’s not love if it’s not maddening.

Sometimes, Seungyoun thinks he only caught Seungwoo’s fancy because he’s reminiscent of the characters they watched: complex and with demons in his head. 

Seungwoo refutes this every time and assures him that he cares. That Seungyoun is the only one who understands him. But they're not true because he sleeps with other people, because when Seungyoun asks him about this he answers that what they have is different than what he has with them, because Seungyoun tries to do the same but he can't even look at someone else, because he doesn’t understand anything at all.

The closing credits of another horror movie roll on the television screen. It's painful to realize that he will always entertain him. And he will always let him break his heart.

A short story written by Seungyoun makes it to the broadsheet. He sends a copy to Seungwoo and wonders if he’ll know it was written for him.

In it, the protagonist prays: dear god, please give me this boy.

A week passes and Seungwoo hasn’t contacted him since. He pretends to be busy. He finishes a manuscript in two-hundred and twenty minutes.

He touches the fox on his shirt. Seungwoo likes to surprise him with tiny presents—the most abundant being clay pins he crafted himself. Seungyoun has fifty of them, always worn above his left chest.

He waits. God, Seungyoun will still give the world to him.

_the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness,  
and in the taste confounds the appetite.  
therefore, love moderately._

**Author's Note:**

> i just really wanted a potter seungwoo x writer seungyoun hahahaha
> 
> the ones in italics are from shakespeare’s romeo and juliet. obviously, i only picked up parts i wanted to include but i’ve always loved the entire quote. violent delights have violent ends...


End file.
